Page 71 of Thief of Night
“Seriously? He just put that there?” Of course, what in this apartment would make Charlie think Rooster wouldn’t have done that? This was a guy with PASSWORD for his password. On the other hand, this was also a guy who’d managed to conceal his laptop from everyone but a living shadow.
“I think it’s meant to be ironically unironic,” Red said. “But there are real recordings in here. Recent ones too.”
“Holy shit,” Charlie said, reaching over to the second to last, labeled PUNCH.
It started midconversation.
A voice Charlie didn’t recognize spoke.Our harvester is gone. I need you to do the job.
I never signed up for that. She could hear Rooster’s nervous breaths.
You’re the architect of this problem. Now solve it.That had to be Mr. Punch speaking. TherealMr. Punch. She paid attention to the sound of his voice. It reminded her of someone.
It’s not how this works. I cut you in on this.If Rooster belonged to the puppeteers, he’d have worked for Malik until very recently. Maybe they’d had a system.
Quit whining and get the fucking shadows,Mr. Punch told him.
What if he goes to Vicereine?Rooster said.
Mr. Punch laughed.Him? He can’t. And neither can you.Then silence.
Charlie looked at the timestamp. The conversation took place three days before the massacre at Grace Covenant.
There was only one other file in the BLACKMAIL folder with a timestamp after that one. She hit play.
Where are you?Rooster asked.You fucker. They’re going to kill you for this.
Then came a weird, hollow laugh. It shivered down Charlie’s spine.
The recording ended, leaving her to ponder how these new pieces fit together.
She went to the refrigerator, trying to get a sense of the last time Rooster had come to this place. There wasn’t much inside—a carton of milk that was sour when she brought it to her nose. Wilted lettuce. A block of Gruyère. Apackage of ham that smelled off. A bottle of unopened Moët that was probably just fine.
“I think he’s dead,” Charlie said, turning back toward Red.
He was lounged in the kitchen chair, looking too big for it, long limbs crossed at the ankles. “So where’s the body?”
She played that final recording again. That laugh made her think of the way Mark had laughed that final time they’d spoken, before he’d conspired with his brother to murder her.
Charlie met Red’s eyes. “This guy sounds like he’d know.”
Balthazar jerked open his door, glaring down at Charlie and then turning that glare on Red.
She pushed past him and into the flat. He was shirtless, his hair messy as though he’d just come from bed.
“Am I interrupting something?” she asked.
He folded his arms over his bare chest. “Is there a reason you’re in my house, Charlie Hall? And is it a reason I am going to hate or merely dislike?”
She put her backpack down on the table. “The Blight you wanted.” The creature inside moved at the sound of her voice, wriggling.
He blinked at her. “But I just… that conversation was onlydaysago.”
“I work fast. You know that.” She tried not to look excessively smug.
“Okay,” he said, smoothing back his hair in a way that indicated some level of freaking out. “Okay. Can I see it?”
For the second time that night, Charlie opened her backpack to reveal the Blight. Then she dumped it, in the onyx netting bound with zip ties, onto Balthazar’s couch.
